The Wages of Silence
by Catslynw
Summary: Pre-series. Weechester! Following the death of his mother, Dean has stopped talking. John is freaking out. He gets help from the only person he thinks could possibly understand, Missouri. Sometimes our choices have long-term consequences. Part 1/2


The Wages of Silence

_ Author's Note: This story is set pre-series and takes place in the first months following Mary's death. The series of events following Mary's death is taken from the show itself, the book, "Supernatural: John Winchester's Journal" by Alex Irvine and the graphic novel, "Supernatural Origins." As we all know, the show is the absolute and final canon. While the journal and the graphic novel are also considered generally to be canon, they contradict both the show and each other at times. This is partially due to the fact that both the book and the graphic novel were published while the show was still in production, and later episodes have occasionally rewritten history first portrayed in these written formats. This being the case, I have done my best to reconstruct events in a manner that makes sense given all three sources. I hope you enjoy the final product, dear reader, and remember that reviews are food for the writer's soul. _

She felt him a good forty minutes before he walked up her porch steps. She'd felt something coming, something powerful big for days. She only knew it was John when he got near her house. Then she had to wait another twenty minutes while he worked up the courage to get out of that old car and show his handsome face at her door. That man… enough pain and pride roiling around inside him for a whole platoon of marines.

"Hello, John," she said opening the door and stepping to the side to let him enter.

"Missouri." He nodded a greeting, his eyes scanning the entry hall in that way all the boys back from 'Nam seemed to have, searching for threats. Give one of those boys knowledge of what walked the dark here at home and he'd never rest easy again. Poor bastard. Sometimes, she wished she could have lied to John Winchester as she lied to so many of the people who came to her for a reading, but the danger was too real and too immediate. He was the last person who could afford a false sense of security.

"I'm surprised to see you back," Missouri said, closing the door behind him. "I didn't think you'd set foot in Lawrence again after what happened to Julie."

John's eyes twitched, and he eyed her uneasily for a moment, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. She couldn't see any telltale bulges, but Missouri knew that at least one of those hands was holding a silver knife. "Is it safe to talk here?" he asked in that soft, slow way of his.

"Yes. When I felt you getting close, I called and canceled the rest of today's appointments." Missouri gave him a reassuring smile but didn't give him the hug she so badly wanted to. Not yet. She needed to be able to talk to him with a clear head. If she touched him, she'd get too much too fast, like always with a client… and especially with John. The connection between them had been so effortless and fast when they'd met that it was far too easy to be overwhelmed by the boy's pain.

"Any hunters in the group?" John asked, the unease sharpening to an outright apprehension that she could feel like an ache in her bones.

"No, honey. Just the typical round of suspicious spouses and lovelorn lonely hearts with a thrill seeker or two thrown in for good measure. Why?"

He shrugged, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"John, you answer me. Is there trouble coming to my door?"

He looked up, surprised, as if it hadn't even occurred to him that she might have reasons of her own to be worried about, well, anything. "No," he said quickly. "I just… I don't trust hunters I don't know. I don't trust most of the ones I've met, either."

"Hmm."

He followed her into the kitchen and nodded a grateful yes when she asked if he wanted coffee. She set the pot to brewing on stove, then sat down next to him. "What's on your mind, John?"

"Shouldn't you know already?" he asked with a half smile, so sweet with sadness that it made your heart want to bust.

The last thing the boy needed was sympathy, though, so Missouri scowled at him and snapped at his arm with a tea towel off the table. "I was being polite, you rotten boy. Where are your manners?"

"Left somewhere on the side of the road, I think, along with my sanity." He sighed. "Did the police question you about Julie's death?"

Julie had been a neighbor and a good friend of Mary Winchester's. When Mary died, John and the boys had stayed with her for a few days. They might have stayed with her longer if some monster hadn't snuck into the house while John was gone – consulting with Missouri – snuck into the house, gutted pretty little Julie and left a message smeared on the wall of a nearby house in her blood. "We're coming for the children." That had been November 15, and Missouri hadn't seen John since, though she'd spoken with him on the phone a time or two.

"No one questioned me, John. I don't think anyone has the foggiest idea you even know me."

"Good."

"Julie's case was closed. They claim a wild dog killed her, some vicious stray or something."

"And the blood on the wall… the police just choose to ignore that?" John said bitterly. "Just like they ignored everything I told them about Mary's death. All they cared about was pinning it on me. When they couldn't do that, they tried to make it look like Mary… like Mary… like she tried to kill… " Tears stood in John's eyes and he knuckled them roughly away. "Doesn't matter what they think. They could never handle the truth anyway."

His emotions were chaotic, a morbid mixture of anger, grief, guilt and despair that made Missouri feel literally sick. Getting up, she got two mugs from the cupboard and pulled the now percolating coffee pot from the burner. Common actions, simple movements helped keep her centered, controlled. And whatever was bad enough to drag John Winchester back to Lawrence this soon after Mary's death, well, that was going to leave Missouri needing all the control she could muster.

"That house where we found the message, it burned down the night you left town, honey. I don't think the police even realize it was connected with Julie's death or your disappearance."

"Huh." From the expression on his face and the waves of disbelief coming from his, Missouri could tell that it had never even occurred to John that he wouldn't be blamed for that death too. But then, death had been come all too familiar a companion for the boy.

Setting a full coffee cup down in front of him – like all Marines, he drank it black and just this side of scalding – Missouri took a deep breath and asked the question whose answer she most dreaded. "Why are you back, John? What is it you need? You know I'll help if I can." John clutched the cup in both hands, staring down into the brew as if he might find the answer to her question lurking there. "Well," Missouri said impatiently, waggling one ringed finger at him, "spit it out. I haven't got all day."

"It's… it's Dean," John said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. "He… " John looked up, his eyes two giant wounds that stabbed at her like knives. Oh, this man could hurt a soul bad with his pain, though never as badly as he himself had been hurt. "Missouri, Dean hasn't spoken in a word in six months," he said, his voice cracking with the effort. "Dude's stopped talking. He hardly looks at me, and I think it's getting worse. I think I'm losing him."

Unable to stand it any longer, Missouri reached out and covered one of his hands with hers. She sucked in a rapid breath as images assaulted her kaleidoscopically. John shoving a blanket-wrapped baby into the tiny, tiny arms of his eldest boy. John running through blood-spattered hallways, frantic, then finding the children safely asleep in their beds. John staring down the barrel of a gun at the body of a dead man, gore blossoming from a bloody hole in his forehead, then turning to find Dean standing just feet away, watching him with wide, horror-filled eyes. "Why'd you kill him, Daddy?" Over and over that phrase played itself out like an old 8-track recording. "Why'd you kill him, Daddy?" Voice small and calm, but eyes wilder and wilder. "Why'd you kill him, Daddy?" John watching as Dean changed a diaper, the toe-headed boy making silly faces at his baby brother, but never making a sound in response to little Sammy's gurgling cries. John arguing with a doctor… with Jacob Campbell… with Mike Guenther… with the police… and Dean watching his father's every move, always in the background, always listening, always looking at the world with too old eyes in his young, angelic face. Dean, always holding tight to Sammy. Take your brother… don't look back. Go! Take your brother! Take your brother! Take your brother! Take your brother! Take your brother! Take your brother! Take your brother! John holding Dean in his lap in the Impala and rocking, rocking, rocking while Sammy slept beside them in the passenger seat.

Missouri let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding as she released John's hand. The young hunter was watching her warily, almost fearfully. "Well?" he said, his gaze dropping to her shaking hands as she clasped them around her own coffee cup. "Should I have stayed away? Should I go?"

"Don't be more of a fool than you can help, John Winchester," she snapped, finding comfort in the familiarity of the exchange. "Men – always ready to run off the second things get emotional."

John snorted. "I'm a marine, a hunter and a widower," he said, managing only to stutter a little on that last word. "What did you expect?"

"Is the child with you, John?" Missouri asked gently.

He nodded. "Dude's waiting in the car with Sammy. They were both asleep on the backseat when I drove up."

Missouri frowned. Asleep or not, she should have been able to sense those children as she'd sensed John. Maybe not Sammy, he was only a baby, after all, but little Dean… that little man had to be feeling pain as powerful as what had sucker-punched his poor papa. He had to be missing his mama something dreadful. And after what she'd seen in John's head, well, goodness knew that the child had to be frightened half to death. So why weren't his emotions striking at her shields like a hammer?

"Did you put some kind of new mojo on that car, John? Maybe something Bobby Singer taught you?"

"Just a few simple charms, Missouri. Nothing very powerful."

"Hmm. All right then, let me get a look at your boy."

She walked out to the car with him. He'd parked in her driveway, a fact she didn't mind since she didn't and never would own a car. Being able to see the energy around objects and people – and having that ability sometimes turn itself on and off without any conscious decision on her part – made driving more than little hazardous to her health and everyone else's too. The doors to the Impala were locked, so she waited while John opened them up and then back out of the vehicle with Dean and Sammy in his arms. It wasn't hard for him to pick both of them up at once since Dean had what amounted to a death grip on his baby brother. Through it all, neither boy woke, and Missouri couldn't help but wonder just what could make a five-year-old and a one-year-old that tired at the same time.

She opened doors for John and then watched, amused and saddened at the same time as he fussed with getting his little ones situated on her couch just so. Whew… he loved those children. You could see it in his every move, in the way his hands shook as he brushed the bangs back from Dean's pale forehead.

"How late did you keep those boys up, John Winchester?" Missouri grumbled to snap herself out of her own melancholy. Being a psychic was too much like being mirror. You went around reflecting other people's emotions for so long that, unless you were careful, after a while that was all you could feel. Thank the Lord for sarcasm and a quick wit. John shot her a startled, guilty look that put all of her hackles up. "Tell me you didn't drug those babies," she insisted.

"Of course not!" John shouted, jumping to his feet, fists clenching. He breathed hard for a few seconds, just staring at her like she was the one who'd lost her mind. Then, ever so slowly, the guilty look crept back across his face. "It's a spell. Just a charm, really."

"John!" she gasped, appalled.

"I don't use it very often, and never on Sammy. At least, never before," John protested. "It's just that Dean has these… these horrible screaming nightmares, night terrors they call them. Reminds me of Davidson, one the men from my platoon. He nearly went crazy with lack of sleep and stress, and… Dude hasn't been getting enough sleep, and I didn't know what else to do. The doctor I saw wanted me to give him sleeping pills. Pills! Missouri, he's five!"

"But a spell, John…"

"Pastor Jim Murphy taught it to me. He swore it wouldn't hurt Dean, and I believe him."

"Jim told you to – "

"Not often. Just when he really needs it, when I have no other choice."

"Hmph," Missouri said, summing up her opinion of all men who thought magic and medicine alike were the key to child-rearing. What did a Catholic priest know about raising babies? Honestly. "Was he having a nightmare on his way here?" she demanded hotly.

"No, but… coming back to Lawrence… I don't want Dude to even know we were here. If he sees where we are, he'll start asking for Mary, and I – " John broke off, putting his face in his hands. When he looked at her again, his lips were still trembling. "And I didn't want him to hear what we're talking about. He hears too much already, sees ways too much. It's killing him, Missouri. It's killing me."

"All right. All right," she said, waving her hands in a _Lord, help all men_ gesture. "Just get out of my way so I can look at the boy."

Picking Sammy up and cradling the baby in his arms, John backed to one of the armchairs and sat down, rocking his youngest gently. Shaking her head, Missouri perched on the edge of the couch and placed a hand on Dean's head, running her fingers through his silk-fine hair. When she touched him, she expected the same kind of barrage she'd gotten from his father, but all she got was a fleeting impression of loneliness and pain and snapshot or two of the baby. Placing one hand squarely on his forehead and the other on his chest, Missouri tried again.

Nothing.

She kept trying for a solid hour, if the clock on the wall wasn't lying, but try as she might, Missouri couldn't pick up a thing from Dean except images of his brother and a general sense of discontentment. Sighing, she stood up and went to sit the armchair beside the one John already occupied.

"Well," he asked anxiously. "What did you see? Why isn't he talking?"

"I don't know," Missouri admitted reluctantly.

"You don't know?" John said, looking as stunned as incumbent come election day. "How can you not know?"

Missouri reached out and patted Sammy on the head then rubbed his smooth cheek. Baby thoughts. Innocent, incurious and contented baby thoughts. She smiled for a moment, then frowned as she explained. "Dean's buried himself so deep that I can't get to him. I'm happy to help with anything I can John. You know that, but with Dean, I'm out of my depth. I think you should take him to see someone else."

"Who?"

Dragging her battered old purse from under the coffee table, Missouri dug around in it until she found the business card holder she used in place of an address book. Pulling one card out, she handed it to John.

"Dr. Mathew Firsk," he read aloud. He scanned the rest of the card, then exploded. "A shrink? Are you out of your mind? I am not taking my son to a shrink! I don't how much Dean saw, but… if he does talk about what happened, they'll either think he's lying, or they'll think he's crazy, or that I put words into his mouth and… They'll take him away from me, Missouri. They'll take him and they'll take Sammy. I already lost Mary. I can't lose the boys too."

"John, we have to do what's best for Dean. He needs help."

"No. Not that kind of help! Missouri, if he did see something of how his mother died and they tell him it wasn't real, if they tell him he imagined or hallucinated it or something, like they tried to tell me... he's only five years old. They could make him worse with their lies. They could destroy his grip on reality. I won't let them do that to my son."

"Maybe it would be better for Dean if he didn't believe."

"Better to doubt himself? To doubt his own mind? How is that better? No," John insisted, shaking his head adamantly. "I won't do it. I have to help him, but not like that."

"John Winchester you are a stubborn, stubborn man, but I can't say that you're wrong," Missouri conceded with a sigh. "And I can't see how this is going to affect Dean in the long term, the way you wish I could." Stooping over her purse again, she extracted a new card. "Here. I've got a good feeling about this one. Maybe she can help."

"Dr. Elizabeth Harmon?" John said, taking the card. "Missouri, I just told you – "

"Will you quit arguing with me and listen for five minutes before I slap you upside the head? She's not a psychiatrist or even a psychologist. Betty's what they call a speech therapist. She mostly works with kids who stutter and lisp and such, but she also does some work with adults who've developed speech problems due to trauma. Maybe she can help a child who has a similar problem. Besides, if Dean talks to her about what he saw, she won't assume he's crazy. She knows things about this stuff, about what's really out there."

John's brow knit thoughtfully. "Is she another psychic?"

"No, but she's real good at reading folks in her own way. Give her a chance, John. Maybe she can help."

"Dr. Elizabeth Harmon," he repeated. "I hope you know what you're doing, Missouri."

"John Winchester, don't you know by now that I always know what I'm doing?" Missouri snapped, smacking him on the arm playfully. "Now, wake that baby up so I can play with him before you take Dean and drive out of my life again."

Tbc


End file.
